I had my fiancé pick a page, and he thought page 125 was a good one. 🙂
Jake nodded and shone his phone’s torch at the file in his hand.
Cora Sanderford b.1977 – d.1990
Type: Low-level Poltergeist
‘Low-level doesn’t sound too bad,’ said Jake.
‘Read the rest, boy. You can’t judge the state of a corpse by the flowers on its grave.’
I let Random.org select a %, and it decided on 33%.
For the rest of the day, Pennybaker School seemed like a totally normal school. The most depressed, heavy-sighing, tearful normal school in the world. Everyone seemed to leave their unique talents at home. Nobody was designing wearable microwave ovens or telling knock-knock jokes in ten languages or walking on their hands. Even Mr. Faboo left his Napoleon costume at home.
My boyfriend was the one who could pick a % (reading this as ebook), and he picked 42.
I followed her to the bust of Joan of Arc. She twisted the statue’s head, and a far wall rumbled and descended into the floor. We darted down the dark, hidden staircase into the weapons room. A giant, gleaming sword that looked like it weighed more than me hung on the wall beside a pair of tomahawks made from two giant fangs.
A cabinet was filled with beakers full of funky monster parts. Jars of fire juice collected from the tongue of the Jersey Devil. Bottles of knockout troll farts. Venomous spittle. Gorgon armpit hives. A boll of evil elf earwax.
My boyfriend had the chance to pick a page, and he selected page 115.
Zoe popped out from the jagged rocks behind me, cradling her paintball gun. “Little lesson for you!” she shouted at the girl she’d just downed. “Save the snarky comments for after you’ve killed your opponent!”
The dead girl stuck her tongue out at us, then trudged off to the morgue.
I let Random.org select a % (I got this one as an ebook), and it selected 34%.
That night I could hardly sleep with the excitement. As well as the worry about whether we’d obtain this last, crucial piece of equipment. Oh, and also the eBay parcels that would be arriving in Dad’s name. I reminded myself to tell him about that. Soon.
Today I let my boyfriend pick a page, and he decided on page 173.
“Are you talking to a can?” Captain Bog’s voice bellowed behind him.
Jed looked up. “No.”
“Did it say anything interesting. You sounded pretty sweet and mushy. Were you two getting to know each other? Middle names, favorite colors, that sort of thing?”
“I wasn’t talking to a can.”
Captain Bog rubbed his chin. “Hmmm. Interesting. Either (a) you don’t know what the word talking means or (b) you don’t know what cans are. Because you were holding one, and you were talking to it.”
I let random.org select a page number and it choose page 130!
They entered a large chamber strewn with bales of straw. The earthy smell of alfalfa filled the room. Stagnant water pooled in various parts of the uneven floor. Dust swirled through beams of light that came in through holes in the thatched roof. There were candles lit along the walls and strange items strewn randomly about. A hand mirror. A spindle. Several rusted knitting needles. A leather purse. It looked to be more rubbish room than classroom.
Since it is an ebook I let Random.org pick a percentage, it decided 25% was the best.
Chef Aimee clapped and cheered, but Chef Gary didn’t stop. He was speeding across the parking lot toward the other side. He hit the curb and was suddenly airborne. A second later, he belly-flopped onto the grass, arms out like a giant starfish. There was a horrified silence. Then slowly a hand rose up. “I’m okay!”